


Yield

by Urimaginarygirlfriend



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (I am not a historian though so please forgive any mistakes!), F/M, Kind of Angsty but not really, mostly Stark-fluff, victorian au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-19
Updated: 2017-04-19
Packaged: 2018-10-21 00:38:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10674069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Urimaginarygirlfriend/pseuds/Urimaginarygirlfriend
Summary: The Starks gather to take back what is theirs.The wolves will come again.





	Yield

Jon knows people say it's destiny, but it's not. If anything, it's karma. He and Robb has spent so much time looking for her that it's only right she shows up. It's not like Jon wasn't trying to find her. Just not there, not then.

Varys sent him there as a messenger: Jon is supposed to ask Lord Baelish's opinion on some delicate matters. He knows Varys doesn't like Lord Baelish, and the matter is apparently not of great importance. But Jon's is, when he sees her. In hindsight, he knows Varys sent him there because of her.

She fits right into Lord Baelish's office. Blue, floral wallpaper, mahogany desk and bookshelves, leather chair, and her, red hair flowing down her shoulders and blue eyes piercing. He can tell she is restraining herself; her eyes tell him that this is not the place to begin their reacquaintance.

And so he waits, takes a fast scribbled note from Lord Baelish and gives her a nod, a promise, _I found you._

He comes back that same evening, and she is waiting by the back entrance. The late fall air is heavy with an oncoming storm, dark, dark clouds roam overhead. Jon can sense the reckoning, and he knows Sansa feels it too. 

Lord Baelish's house is an expensive gentlemen's club by day, and a brothel by night, so Jon has no problems blending in with the other guests. No one questions Sansa's authority here, and Baelish is nowhere in sight. Sansa takes his hand as she leads him up to her rooms, and closes the door behind him. The air is electric with anticipation. Jon can't stop his breath from quickening.

She flings herself towards him in an embrace that almost knocks him off his feet, and but he manages to hold onto her, keeps her close to him. It's the sweet, warm relief of _finally,_ of things falling into place.

He hasn't seen her in so long, and she's almost a woman now. Eighteen and glowing, she looks like something out of a fairytale. And he is so handsome, like he finally grew into himself. There's little left of the lanky, insecure boy she left all those years ago, but everything she's wanted the last four years is suddenly within his arms.

It feels unreal, like a dream too good to be true. But he is flesh and bone, and just as real as her. She can feel his arms around her, smell his scent, see his face in front of her. Tears come to her eyes, and she digs her face into Jon's shoulder. He just holds her, strokes her back and comforts her.

Finally there's a face she recognises, someone she truly knows; not like how Petyr tells her she can trust him when she knows she can't, not like how everyone makes promises they don't keep. She's soaring on freedom, the feeling of belonging somewhere.

She feels so safe with him, and perhaps that is why she's nosing his neck when she tries pulling away from him. But she can't, not entirely, and instead puts her hand on his cheek. And it feels too right, too natural to ignore. Sansa feels slightly weak in his arms, so she makes a choice.

Jon loves her, right? If she where to do something she shouldn't, he would forgive her. She's finally free again, and that includes free to make mistakes. Jon could forgive her. He could. He already has.

Her face is so close to his, and she kisses him. Softly, but she keeps her lips on his for awhile. She's scared of what will happen if she takes them away again.

But she doesn't. Now he's kissing her, and Sansa is struggling for breath.

If Sansa thought she was bound by a spell before, she certainly is now. He's a good kisser, too good, in fact. There's nothing forgiving in it at all, but perhaps she doesn't need forgiving. Perhaps this is what both of them need. Perhaps this is exactly how things should be.

Sansa's hands skim over his shoulders and into his hair, while Jon has one hand on her neck, and the other pawing at her waist. Sansa only breaks away when she hears a cacophony of laughter erupting downstairs, and remembers where they are, who she is and what they are supposed to be doing.

Jon seems to remember as well, and while his look turns somber again, Sansa can't help but smile. _Free. Finally. Home._

Sansa grabs a small bundle of clothes and belongings she has ready, and ties it around her waist. Jon takes her hand and leads her almost to the bottom of the stairs. One of Petyr's ladies are standing there waiting for customers, but turns around when the staircase creaks. She pulls her skirt up casually, and after casting a worried look on Jon, Sansa realises she's supposed to hide under it.

One of the other ladies walk by, and though she sees them and what is going on clearly, she simply keeps walking. Sansa realises the whole brothel probably knows, but they all looked so pitying the few times she got a chance to talk to them. They had promised that life would be better for her someday, and it seems they're keeping their word after all.

Sansa can feel blood pounding in her ears when she crouches down and uses her hands to gather her dress, and the lady starts walking. Sansa is forever grateful the lady has the decency to wear underthings. "Well, good Sir, perhaps I shall see you some other night." She's certainly holding Jon's arm, making it seem like he's a customer the lady is trying to lure back. "Perhaps," Jon says, trying to act casual and only barely failing. It's not like anyone notices anyway.

The lady walks with Jon out on the street and into a back alley, where the Lady pulls her skirts up. Sansa emerges again, and straightens her clothes. "Thank you," she says, perhaps the most sincere she's ever been. The woman huffs. "Anything for coin, love."

Jon hands the lady a small purse, and she smiles when she weighs it in her hands. She kisses Sansa's cheek and mutters, "Good luck," and disappears back onto the street, no doubt on the look for another customer.

Jon doesn't waste his time. As soon as she's out of sight he takes Sansa's hand, and pulls her with him back into the city. It's changed since she last saw it; more rubbish in the streets, some of the houses painted in a new colour, the people not the same.

She doesn't know where they're going, but she trusts Jon enough to not stop and ask questions. She knows it would be a bad idea: Petyr might have noticed her absence by now. The girls in the brothel can only hide her disappearance for so long.

Sansa doesn't know how long they walk, an hour, three, her brain doesn't register it. They go through yards and backdoors and kitchens and out on busy streets, only to hurl back into narrow alleys. Jon doesn't slow down, only keeps going, desperate to keep her safe.

When he finally slows down in front of a door in an abandoned street, Sansa's feet are aching, and she can't feel her fingers. It's completely dark, and heavy fog is creeping around their feet. Sansa doesn't have a thermometer, but she knows the temperature most have dropped severely. The moon is barely visible in the sky, and thunder rumbles in the distance.

The house smells like mould when they enter, and Jon closes the door behind them. He leads her up a flight of narrow, creaking stairs, and opens the door on the far end of the hall. It's small; just one room with a double bed, a hearth with one ashy log, a couple of chairs in a corner and a tiny desk with a small window over it. The air is cold to the bone. It's moist and old, the paint flaking and the wallpaper peeling off in the corners.

"We're going to freeze," Jon says, and finally lets go of her hand. Sansa sits down on the bed, which is even colder than she thought. Jon ducks his head out the door, and comes back to start a fire with the little amount of wood left in the hearth. He sighs when he's done, and a small, pathetic flame lights up the room. He presses a kiss to her temple. "I'll find some more wood. I'll be right down the hall, just call if you need me."

Sansa nods, and Jon disappears. She feels paralysed, and sits on the bed trying to massage feeling into her fingers. She waits until she hears the sound of Jon chopping wood to untie her belongings from her waist, and lays them out on the bed.

A nightgown, a hairbrush and a ribbon. The brush was a gift from her mother, and she used to brush Sansa's hair before every party they held. She took the ribbon when she left home; her father tied it into her hair the last time she saw her parents.

The nightgown was something she sowed herself, the only thing that's ever been only hers. She's always been the object of someone else: her parents' daughter, Prince Joffrey's betrothed, Petyr's precious bird. She's used to wearing silks and fine jewellery that are not her own, to use clothes as a mask, but the nightgown is the only thing she hasn't had to pretend in. It's hers, just hers. No one else.

She changes into the nightgown, and puts the other things away again.

She sits down on the floor right by the hearth, knees under her chin, trying to gain some shred of warmth. The heat from the hearth is almost burning her legs where it reaches, but the rest of the house remains freezing. No one ever said London was warm during winter. She uses a hand to touch the floor, and it's cold, like ice frozen to rock on a lake.

She feels alone, like she always seems to do, like it's going to be like that forever. The house is silent and rotten, like her, and the hearth can't do anything to melt the ice away. Still, she's safer than she's been in a long time. Cold and empty is better than any luxury anyone else could offer her, so she ignores the feeling of dread that's always haunting her when she's alone.

She can feel energy pouring out her bones, leaving room for exhaustion to settle in, and knows she'll fall asleep soon. The floor is still cold against her cheek when she lies down, too tired to move further. Her eyes slip shut without Sansa noticing.

She wakes a while after, the cold disappearing and warm arms carrying her to the bed. And she's reminded, Jon is always warm, always, always there. _Always hers._

**Author's Note:**

> So. There it is. I know there is very little backstory, but there will be more! I've started writing the next few chapters, but I do not know when they will be finished. I have a very ~vague~ idea about where this is going and how many chapters there will be, so well just have to see.


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